


party rockers in the house tonight (everybody just have a good time)

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: (specifically Party Rock Anthem), Apocalypse Prevented, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, LMFAO Music Videos, Post-Apocalypse, absolute ridiculous nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 00:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8918677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: "What if Marshmello were the cardboard robot in the LMFAO music videos and it was played completely seriously?" and then i wrote it





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasiphae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphae/gifts).



> this goes out to my lil sib jupiter, who inspired this. enjoy!! xoxo

The beat runs through his bones.

It’s not kind. It’s not fast, either. It’s just there, and he knows there are others that know it too. Others with the beat running through them, people rehabilitated or partially immune or just lucky. People with brushes right at the end, enough to stamp the music into their bones but not enough to bring them to the trembling seizure end that waited for most.

He hauls in a breath, puts his fingers to the knobs of his deck and adjusts the beat up a few bpm. It’s easier when it’s not too slow, when it’s close enough to the old sound to tease out the magic without it hurting him too much.

He can’t leave it alone.

The crowd screams and he blinks away the old way it used to feel. He was never the leader, not like he is now. He likes this better, he tells himself, and he almost believes it. It’s better to flirt with the edge and fall back every time than to deny himself entirely.

He reaches up, knocks the white helmet back on straight. It’s something he’s used to, something from before too. It’d been brown and square back then, crude and loose. He can’t even remember how he’d gotten it, just remembers he’d felt better with it on, with his face hidden. He still does.

He’s almost to the end of the set and he can feel it, the ache in his jaw that’s half the grit of his teeth and half the old way he’d pried headphone wires out of people’s ears with his teeth, pressed the music into them the way it’d demanded to be heard.

He spins away from the deck before he can twist the beat back down to _dangerous_.

Sonny is watching him, concerned. He knows, some of it, not everything. Not what he’d been, not how _involved_ he’d been, but… that he had been. He knows that much. It’s enough to spin Marshmello back around, his hands back on the deck, and he’s in control now. He’s the master of this music, he’s the one that guides it now. 


End file.
